For the Plinth

Memories disperse into mist –
pointillist specks separating
like the universe –
and numb blanks will pixilate your face
and plane your profile…
so breathe slow,
calm in your balmy stupor,
warm in the glow of pagan flames,
as I dip my brush into liquid sun
and gild you in immortal light.

In long strokes, your soles
become golden angel shoes.
I tickle your toes, slipping bristles
between them, and slick your calves,
pushing the brush into tucked-away places.
I glance at your silent face;
it will be the final portrait I paint.
I coat the curve of your buttocks
and the ripples of your spine –
the union of brush and skin our metaphor.

From mound to mound,
my wrist furls and unfurls,
graceful and balletic as your shoulders become orbs.
I am conducting a symphony
where musical notes are lovers’ heartbeats.

For the Plinth

My brush drips metallic sobs
as I lift your hair
and coil around your fragile neck like a tightening serpent,
shushing your diminishing gurgle
and reminding you of Tutankhamun.

I replenish my brush and transfer it.
I must caress your draped hand.
Weave fingers.
I anoint your palms and nails with the gold strands,
gliding purposefully now to cover your limp arms.
I plunge both hands into the unctuous ooze,
slide over the crescent of your stomach,
circle your chest. And lock in your heart.
I paint shut your eyelids, sealing in dark moons,
kiss your lips, smooth your face and give you a halo.